


Reversal

by radialarch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Non-Graphic Violence, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/pseuds/radialarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock kills his rapist. This is what happens afterwards.</p><p>Written for this <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html?thread=123398895#t123398895">kinkmeme prompt</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reversal

**Author's Note:**

> Love to Penguin and a kind anon for looking this over, and everyone who left encouragement on the meme. This has been revised since its initial posting. In particular, an extra scene has been added.
> 
> ALSO, augustbird has done lovely art [here](http://augustbird.tumblr.com/post/39732417640/three-hours-later-gregs-back-in-barts-basement) and you guys should all go give her some love ♥

It's the third time in two weeks that Greg's seen this scene when he finally calls Sherlock in for a consult.

"He used standard-issue police handcuffs to restrain the victim – look at where the metal cut into the skin. Now, padded handcuffs are easily available in any sex store and equally effective, so why would our killer use..." Sherlock trails off, pacing frantically and just barely avoiding the large patch of blood on the floor.

"He's police-affiliated?" John suggests, off to one side.

"No, of course not," Sherlock snaps. "That's entirely too obvious. When he's killed three people without Scotland Yard's finest picking up his trail, surely we ought to give the man more credit." He turns back to scowl at the victim's body. "Lestrade, are you sure your men haven't moved anything? The shape of that bloodstain is all wrong."

"I told you, the scene now is exactly how we found it." Greg attempts not to sound too peeved. "What d'you mean, shaped all wrong? This is how the first two scenes looked, too, and—Sherlock?"

Sherlock halts, muttering under his breath. His hands flicker in rapid motions, and his eyes are focused on something distant.

"Oh, for god's sake," Greg throws his hands up. "What is that, his mind...manor...thing?"

"Mind palace. You must have reminded him of something," John shrugs. "I dunno how long he's going to do that, it might be a while."

"Well, can you take him somewhere else? I'm going to need my men to come in here pretty soon."

"Right, sorry." John takes hold of Sherlock's arm and tugs him towards the door. "We'll get out of your way."

"And tell Sherlock not to go off on his own!" Greg yells as the two men head out. "If he thinks of something, you both have my number. _Call me_."

There's a nod from John, and, predictably, nothing from Sherlock. Greg sighs and calls for Donovan and Hopkins. Christ, a killer who rapes and tortures his victims before letting them bleed to death. On top of everything, this is going to be a PR nightmare.

 

Greg comes back from delivering the news to the victim's family (no, not just _victim_ – Anna Harris, 23, accountant) with a sick feeling in his stomach; no matter how many times it happens, he never gets used to that moment right before understanding strikes and whoever he's talking to crumples up in grief. He finds a report from forensics that's inexplicably excited about paint chips and Donovan with what looks like an explosion of photographs all around her.

"Got anything?" he asks, leaning against the edge of her desk.

"You know how we were trying to find a connection between the victims?" she looks up, waving a sheaf of papers. "I think I might have found something."

Just then, Greg's mobile beeps. Sherlock's texted him an address.

Greg swears softly. "Please tell me John knocked some sense into you," he mutters at the message. "And that you didn't just go off on your own, after a dangerous murderer."

"John Watson? He probably went along _with_ him. I'm telling you, hanging around Sherlock Holmes as long as he's done? He's just as weird as Holmes is."

"Yeah, well, I can live with that, all right?"

His mobile beeps again.

_Urgent. Please.  
SH_

"Sir?" Greg blinks and finds Donovan giving him a concerned look. "Are you all right?"

"Let's go," Greg says, feeling more uneasy than ever.

 

Sherlock has sent them to a two-storey building in a grim part of town. Greg attempts to stay calm, but a rustling noise has him grasping nervously for his baton; out of the corner of his eye, he sees Donovan do the same.

They make their way through a darkened hallway and end up in a room where Sherlock's frantically pacing. He looks up when they approach. "Took you long enough." His voice is oddly hoarse.

Donovan's not paying attention to him at all, instead looking at the man on the floor with blood clumped in his hair. He's not breathing. There are streaks of blood everywhere and a stained knife on the floor a couple of metres away from the body. "What the hell—"

"What? _Who_ , rather, is the question." Sherlock points, his motions stiff. "This is Anthony Cardew, janitor, petty thief, sadist, and the killer you're looking for. You can see—"

"Sherlock," Greg says, cutting off his words. Sherlock flinches. "He's _dead_."

"Why, yes," Sherlock says, his teeth flashing in a strange grin. "I'm glad you still have enough observational skills to notice that much, Detective Inspector."

"My god," Donovan breathes. "You did it. You killed him. This time—"

"Donovan!" Greg barks.

"Yes," Sherlock says at the exact same time. "Well done, Sally. Now, if you'll notice, there are distinct scratches on this radiator – shiny, so quite new. Cardew's fourth would-be victim was restrained there, handcuffs looped through the radiator. Awkward angle, but with enough effort one might break or dislocate a thumb and manage to get free. Then—"

Greg shakes his head, trying to clear it. "No, no, stop. What?"

"I. Killed. Him," Sherlock says in precise syllables. "Would you like me to write that down?"

"So you've turned vigilante now, is that it?" Donovan asks with an edge of hysteria. "I knew it was going to happen. We're going to have to bring you in."

"Shut up, both of you!" Greg shouts, making Sherlock rock back a touch. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, what are you saying?"

Sherlock stares back unblinkingly.

"Jesus Christ. All right, the victim and John, where are they?"

"Upstairs." Sherlock's face, already pale, turns even whiter.

"Right." Greg rubs a hand over his eyes and tries to will away the seeds of a headache. "I'm going to go get them. Donovan—"

"On it, sir." She reaches for her handcuffs, looking at Sherlock. Greg tries to block out the jingle of metal as he starts upstairs.

 

Above, Greg is confronted by closed doors. He's swerving for the first on his right before he understands the faint pounding noise is not just in his head and veers left instead. He rattles the doorknob and growls in frustration when it doesn't budge.

"Hello?" he calls through the wood. "Police. The door's locked, and I'm going to kick it open in thirty seconds. Get away from the door if possible."

There's a faint shuffling sound, and Greg takes a breath, counts, braces his left feet and angles with his right—

He stumbles into the room and right next to the doorway is John Watson, curled on the floor with his hands and feet tied together. "Oh god," he says, dropping to his feet. "John."

He wrestles John into a sitting position and finds the man gagged. Above the fabric there are dried traces of tears. "Hang on," he says, pulling at the knot, and then John's spitting out a sodden rag and coughing, long and dry.

"Sherlock?" he asks weakly.

"Downstairs," Greg says, feeling incredibly awkward. He doesn't make eye contact, instead fumbling at the knot at John's wrists. John's pulled it impossibly tight, and Greg almost dislodges a fingernail in loosening it. A strange thought suddenly strikes him. "John, where's the victim?" He'd assumed John would be tending her, but the room is empty except for the two of them.

"What victim?" John shakes his head. "Listen, Sherlock—"

"Yeah, hang on," Greg cuts him off, moving down to the rope binding John's ankles. John is flexing his fingers together, wincing as the circulation comes back into his arms, and he struggles to his feet as soon as the knot gives; Greg has to catch him from falling right back down.

"Easy," he says. "Relax, it's okay."

John's letting out shuddering gasps through his mouth. "No, you don't understand—" he stumbles through the door and down the stairs. Greg keeps a steadying hand on his back. "Oh, Jesus, no, Sherlock."

The first thing Greg notices is the sharp smell of vomit. The second is that there's a shiny pair of cuffs on the ground and a blood-encrusted one around Sherlock's wrists.

He stops in his tracks.

"I'm just going to...unlock this, all right?" Donovan's saying, wiping at her mouth. "Sorry, it might hurt—"

"I'm well aware of that. Just get it over with," Sherlock says, wincing as he holds out his right hand. And then he looks up. "Hello, John."

"Yes, all right," Donovan says softly, manoeuvring her standard-issue key while trying not to dig the cuff further into flesh, and her tone finally penetrates Greg's foggy brain. It's a fragile approximation of her _victim_ voice, meant to convey a mixture of comfort and authority. And that means—

"Have you called 999?" Greg asks, his own voice sounding very far away.

Donovan's attempt at an answer is too shaky to make out, but she's nodding and Sherlock looks like he's rolling his eyes. "Yes, and she called for back-up, too," he says, before his breath huffs out in a wince.

"I'm sorry," John croaks as Donovan finally unlocks the cuff from the torn wrist, limping straight for Sherlock with his hands held out in a classic non-threatening gesture. "I couldn't—Sherlock, _what did he do_?"

Greg, his heart thrumming in his throat, would like to know that, too. "Donovan," he says, "get the first aid kit, will you?"

"Yes, sir," she says, sounding both terrified and relieved, and heads out for the car at once.

Sherlock closes his eyes, swaying slightly. "Cardew took John by surprise," he starts, his tone detached. "Knocked him out with a piece of plywood. You need to get checked for a concussion," he suddenly blinks.

John gives a humourless laugh. "Let's not worry about me right now," he says, although now that Greg's looking he can see a patch of blood behind John's ear. "Go on."

"I then—he'd had martial arts training. I didn't expect that, it was _stupid_ ," he adds, suddenly vicious. "I should have known, it would have been—"

"Sherlock," Greg says, voice too rough, and Sherlock stops at once. He clears his throat and tries again. "Don't—don't worry so much about the other stuff. Are you hurt?"

The disdainful shape of Sherlock's mouth is eloquent. "No, Lestrade, I've bloodied my shirt for decoration."

In the dim lighting Sherlock's dark shirt seems fine – then Greg realises with a lurch that its stiffly crumpled folds are not at all natural.

Before Greg can respond, Donovan comes back with the first-aid kit. "I can wrap up your wrist, if you want," John says, picking out a roll of bandages. "Are you bleeding anywhere else?"

"No." Sherlock says, holding out his arm. And adds, "I'd estimate the blood loss somewhere between one and two litres. Not significantly life-threatening."

"From the knife?" Greg asks, trying to clear his thoughts.

"Ah, good, you _do_  remember the specifics of the case. Yes, Cardew had a very enjoyable time carving decorations into my chest," Sherlock drawls. "The man is nothing if not consistent."

The wail of an ambulance interrupts everything, his team soon after; and Sherlock, with a shock of white around his wrist, allows himself to be escorted away without another word. John goes with them, still limping.

"Sir," Donovan says urgently, as they're taping off the scene. "When he said 'consistent'..."

Greg thinks back to the autopsy reports. _Marks cut into flesh. Cracked ribs. Evidence of sexual assault._

He swallows and says, "Let's wait for the medical evaluation."

 

Greg learns a lot about Anthony Cardew in the next few hours. That the first three victims frequented the Tesco where Cardew worked. That the man had probably nicked the handcuffs from one of his many trips to the custody station. That he'd sustained head trauma from a fall before acquiring the stab wound in his chest.

As he steps into the hospital lift, he thinks he might still not know anything important. Donovan, beside him, is a coil of tension.

John has a taped ankle and is sitting by Sherlock's bed, fingers drumming restlessly on his thighs. Sherlock is frowning at his phone and doesn't look up.

"Hello, Sherlock," Greg says into the room. "John."

"Here to take a statement?" Sherlock says, sounding wholly uninterested. "I trust I'm not still being arrested."

"Look," Donovan bursts out, before taking a deep breath. "Yeah, a statement's all we need," she says tightly.

"Ask away, then," Sherlock says, and finally puts his phone down.

 

Sherlock is simultaneously the best and worst witness Greg's ever had.

He dispassionately answers all the questions and is meticulously complete in his answers. He reels off details in a flat, mechanical tone until Greg can almost picture the scene sickening minute by minute.

John interjects from time to time, but he mostly keeps silent with his breath coming ragged; and when Sherlock begins to describe the rape John's hands curl into fists. Sherlock doesn't pause in his speech as he reaches out and brushes a finger over John's whitened knuckles.

Greg looks away for a moment and notices Donovan's pencil digging hard into her notepad. There's a fine tracery of graphite dust around the last few words.

 

Sherlock's voice is quite hoarse by the time they finish; he lets his eyes shut as he sinks back into his pillow with something like relief.

"I think that's it, really," John says, quiet. "If he wants to add anything more we'll give you a call."

"Yeah, thanks," Greg says gruffly, giving a quick glance at Sherlock. His face looks almost grey and there are tight lines around his mouth.

He's desperately looking for something to say when Donovan speaks up from the door. "Holmes," she says carefully, "I'd like to—"

"Sally, I don't recall asking for your _pity_ ," Sherlock snaps, eyes still closed.

Donovan's nostrils flare before she stalks out of the room. John looks almost apologetic.

"I'm just going to," Greg says, inanely, gesturing at the door. "Take care, John. Sherlock."

John drags up a wan smile from somewhere. Sherlock only shrugs minutely as he leaves.

 

"Donovan," he starts on the drive back to the station, his eyes fixed on the road.

"Sir," she says, clipped and defensive.

"Take the rest of the day off."

"I—but," the protest explodes from her lungs. "Sir, the—report, and statement—"

"Hopkins can take care of it," he says. "You're not on call tonight, anyway."

"Are you sure—"

"That's an order, Donovan."

A pause, then, "Yes, sir."

 

A week after the Cardew case closes, Greg's in a cramped flat in Hackney when an argument drifts through the door. "What the hell is going on?" he yells as he walks out, only to be greeted by Sherlock swooping about in great irritation and a hapless DC trying to keep him away from the scene.

"Sherlock," he blinks. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be resting, or-"

"Boring," Sherlock spits out. "I am fine, and the flat is intolerably dull, and you've been keeping cases from me."

As a matter of fact, he _has_ been refraining from calling Sherlock in. "Don't be ridiculous," he protests anyway. "You're our consultant. We don't need you all the time."

John, who's been standing quietly behind Sherlock, shoots him a very resigned look.

"Yes, well, considering this is the second such murder in five days and you've yet to make an arrest, I'd say that you do, in fact, need me."

"How—" Greg lets out a frustrated groan. "No, I don't want to hear about it, but I'll remind you that we've talked about you breaking into the Met's system."

"And I've told you that your security is rubbish," Sherlock sniffs, and swoops into the flat like nothing's happened – except for the fact that his movements are a bit slower, just a little less smooth than usual.

Greg gives John an uncertain look.

"I—" John spreads his hands helplessly. "He insisted. It didn't seem like a good idea to tell him that he couldn't...do things."

"Right," Greg says tensely, and turns to go back inside.

"Wait," John says and walks ahead, calling, "Hey, Sherlock, found anything?"

When they enter the room, Sherlock's crouched on the floor peering through his magnifying glass. "Don't talk," he says absently. "I need to concentrate."

Greg rolls his eyes and sees John do the same, but they obligingly settle back to watch Sherlock work.

Sherlock is examining the head wound (bled copiously, likely cause of death) when Donovan walks in. "What the—why are you here?" she asks, voice hovering somewhere between challenge and careful concern.

Sherlock's given a violent start at her entrance and dropped his magnifying glass. It lands in a sticky pool of blood with a muted click.

Greg finds he's holding his breath and lets it out, very slowly.

"Sally," Sherlock says in an icier tone than Greg's ever heard from him. He's picked up his magnifying glass and is rubbing the blood off it with one gloved hand, but his fingers are noticeably shaking. "I am, once again, _doing your job_ ," he says, getting to his feet. "Because you lot apparently lack the ability to see anything of importance, let alone understand what it means. For example, here, the killer, short man with oversized feet and with some connection to the next-door neighbour." His hands gesture around the room in sharp stabs as he speaks.

"What neighbour?" Greg says out loud, trying to break the ringing silence.

"The one who's taking care of the cat," Sherlock snarls, and then brushes past Donovan and walks out the door.

"I wasn't trying to—I thought—" Donovan starts with a stricken expression.

"It's all right," John says, looking very tired. "I'd better go after him."

Watching John leave, Donovan declares roughly, "This—well. It's a mess."

Greg nods because he doesn't have anything to add and goes to talk to the neighbour.

 

"We found him," Greg calls John back at the station, when the killer is handcuffed and deposited in a cell for the night. "He confessed."

"What, the case?" John sounds a tad distracted. "All right, thanks, I'll let Sherlock know."

"Uh, how is he?" he asks, the words rushing out quickly. "Sherlock."

"He's f—" and then John stops and reconsiders while Greg waits. "He does better when you give him some warning before you walk into the room," he finally says. "Not that he'd admit that, mind."

"Well," Greg says wryly, "God forbid the great Sherlock Holmes be human."

John shakes his head. "He—yeah," he says, and then falls silent.

The pause drags out uncomfortably long. "Okay, right," Greg says. "Listen, I have some work to finish up—"

"Yes, absolutely," John says at once. "Good night, Greg."

Greg hangs up. He grabs a random form off his desk and stares at it, not taking in a word.

 

It's one of those days that _don't_ start with a murder, and Greg's wincing at a tepid cup of station coffee when there's a polite knock at his door.

"Yeah, come in," he says distractedly. "Think we can make forensics write these up in English, or would that be too much to ask?"

"I certainly hope not, Detective Inspector," says a smooth voice, and Greg promptly upsets coffee all over his trousers.

"Shit," he says, jumping out of his chair. "Fuck—sorry, sorry!" He snags a handful of tissues from his desk and presses it to the worst of the stain. "Give me a moment," he manages, edging towards the door. "I'll just be—"

"My apologies, I didn't intend to startle you," says Mycroft Holmes, taking a seat in front of the desk. "Please, take your time."

After a hurried trip to the loo and a frantic hunt for an extra pair of trousers, Greg returns with his face still burning. "Mr Holmes," he drags up his most professional voice, feeling like an intruder in his own office. "What can I do for you?"

"I understand that my brother is having some...difficulties working with you as per his normal practice," he says delicately.

Greg stares at him and settles for blunt. "If he is, I'd imagine you don't need me to tell you about it."

Mycroft's smile tightens.

"Look," Greg says, "how many times have we done this? You come around whenever you want me to do something about Sherlock. I'm not going to pretend that I don't know that and sit here and talk about the fact that, what, Sherlock's traumatised or whatever he is, because you know what? I don't think he'd appreciate that very much."

"Very well," Mycroft says after a surprised pause. "I'd like you to give some of your cold cases to Sherlock. He should have something to occupy him."

"You can't give him something?" Greg frowns. "The DCS might have problems with me doing that."

"I've tried," he says, grip tightening on his umbrella. "Sherlock refused."

"Oh."

"Not that I blame him, of course," he says, studying the tips of his fingers. "The case would have required a bit of leg-work. It's...understandable that he might not have felt up to it."

Greg wants to say something – apologise, maybe – but Mycroft's shoulders are stiff against that kind of comfort. "I'll see what I can do," he says instead.

"Thank you, Detective Inspector," Mycroft says softly, getting to his feet. "Oh," he stops as he's going through the door, "I think you'll find that the Chief Superintendent will not protest much about the cold cases."

"Right," Greg mutters when the man's disappeared. "Mysterious influences from above and all that."

 

"Hello?" Greg calls in front of 221B, holding a box of case files. "Sherlock? John?"

"Greg!" John opens the door but doesn't step aside to let him in. "What brings you here?"

"I've got a few cold cases here," he says, nodding down. "I was wondering if Sherlock might like to look through them."

"Oh," John says in a low tone. "Yeah, that's a good idea. Hey, Sherlock?" He turns in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. "Greg has some cold cases here he'd like you to—"

"I haven't lost my hearing," Sherlock says sharply, emerging in a flurry. He makes no move to take the files.

"Some of these are pretty old," Greg starts awkwardly, "maybe even a couple of decades, but it'd still be nice to get some closure."

Sherlock stares at him steadily, and then reaches for the file on top. "You know a case file is nowhere near useful as being on the scene," he says, flipping to the photographs. "Even discounting the wealth of evidence the Met most likely missed."

"Yeah, well," Greg shrugs. "That's why I'm coming to you, isn't it?"

Sherlock's eyebrow twitches before he lifts the box from Greg's hands. "I'll take a look," he says, clipped, and glides back to his bedroom.

"You know, he does appreciate it, really," John says apologetically.

"Yeah," Greg waves off. "It's not a problem at all."

 

There's a body on the slab, cause of death unknown. "Cyanosis," Molly says, examining the blue-tipped fingers with interest. "Some sort of poisoning? I'll let you know when the lab reports come back."

Three hours later Greg's back in Barts basement when a quiet voice says, "Sherlock." Down a side corridor that leads to the labs, a long-coated figure is leaning into the wall, his forehead just touching the surface. The line of his back quivers and Greg can hear the harshness of his breaths even at this distance.

John reaches out a hand out but it never gets to Sherlock's shoulder. "It's fine," he says instead. "We can go back to the flat if you want. Finish up tomorrow."

"No." The word is brittle. "There's no need, I just need to—"

"Okay," John says easily. "Take your time." He settles back until his shoulders hit the wall.

"This is stupid," Sherlock bites out after a moment. He tugs his scarf off in jerky motions and lets it fall to the floor.

John shoves his hands into his pocket. "How did you know about the bicycles?" he asks, voice light. "That there were two."

"Lead in the paint," Sherlock says at once. "Traces of it on the bike lock. But the one we found was at most fifteen years old."

"That's brilliant." John smiles. "And the key?"

Sherlock keeps talking, his voice smoothing out, and Greg steals away then, feeling like he's intruded on something.

"It was nitrobenzene," Molly tells him under the bright lights of the morgue. "You can absorb it through your skin, so maybe it was an accident?" She stops talking to look at him, frowning. "Hey, are you okay? You look kind of pale."

"What? Yeah," Greg says, shaking his head. "I'm fine. It's a bit cold down here, isn't it?"

 

Sherlock has made progress on some dozen cases and sends Greg upwards of fifty texts before Greg invites him to another crime scene. "Finally," Sherlock says when he gets there, snapping on his gloves. "I must admit the Met's photographing techniques have vastly improved since the eighties."

Greg hides a grin. "Five minutes," he says, stepping into the room, "and then I'm kicking you out."

Sherlock sweeps in and is immediately engrossed by a chip on the windowsill, while John follows behind more slowly. "Murder by hanging?" he raises an eyebrow. "That doesn't happen very often."

Before Greg can respond, there's movement at the door. "The techs want to sweep the place," Donovan reports, "something about the dimensions of the rooms not matching up."

Greg can't help it; he turns towards Sherlock, who's frozen with a hand reaching up for the window-latch.

"Sherlock?" John says urgently. "Are you—"

"Fine," Sherlock says, taking a breath. "I'm _fine._ " He spins and cocks his head at Donovan, who is anxiously wringing her hands together.

"Sally," he says, the tremor in his voice almost undetectable. "Your taste in men seems to have improved."

She blinks, thrown off. "I don't think—" she starts hotly, before she clicks her teeth together. "Why don't you just tell us about the case," she says instead, her tone nearly neutral. "Go on," she adds – tips up her chin and crosses her arms.

The edges of Sherlock's mouth curve up a fraction. "The dimensions of the rooms are indeed off," he says. "I'd suggest checking behind this wall, which appears a good five centimetres thicker than it ought to be."

"All right, then." Greg nods, feeling something loosen in his chest. "Better get Anderson."

**Author's Note:**

> This fic may be inaccurate in several places, most notably in the workings of the UK police system and in the workings of hospitals. For the sake of fic, let's call it an AU.
> 
> Also, this was an excellent prompt; and it might be worth going over to the kinkmeme where there are two other fills ([one complete](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html?thread=123630575#t123630575) (parent up for other parts); [one in progress as of 12/12/12](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html?thread=123855087#t123855087)).


End file.
